


the thasmin conundrum

by theclaravoyant



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 11x05 Coda, F/F, Fluff, Muslim Character, Muslim Yaz, Pre-Relationship, The TARDIS ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 21:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: Yaz is feeling restless and decides to find the Doctor.





	the thasmin conundrum

**Author's Note:**

> this may easily turn into, and/or become part of, a collection of thasmin fics & drabbles so keep your eyes out folks (and feel free to prompt me, here or on tumblr @theclaravoyant)
> 
> in the meantime, have this little piece of post-11x05 fluff

Later that evening - or at least, it felt that way - Yaz was feeling restless. Incomplete. That sort of feeling like there was something stuck in her teeth, or something she’d forgotten, or she’d overheard part of a conversation and started thinking it must have been about her but she couldn’t recall what anyone had actually said. She tossed and turned and kicked at her blankets and ended up staring at the roof in a huff.

_The roof of an alien spaceship._

The huff faded, and she grinned. Perhaps it was just the adrenalin of the day wearing off. She could remember her heart racing; she could remember praying for dear life. And here she was, safe in bed, grinning away.

Maybe that was it, she thought all of a sudden. Prayer. She’d forgotten about _salat_ the last… well, it was hard to tell how long, since time was apparently meaningless on the TARDIS, but she estimated her body and mind had been through three days or so without it - not counting the time she was unconscious, of course, which she figured was fair enough. Huh. No wonder she was feeling odd. Especially since it wasn’t like she didn’t have much to pray about, either. Here she was, after all, safe in bed after all that had happened.

She had an idea, and swung into a sitting position, untangling herself from the blankets. She had a feeling the Doctor didn’t sleep much if at all, which would probably help with her plan, but still she tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as she crept through the halls in her slippers back to the main console room. The Doctor had dimmed the lights, but from around the corner Yaz could hear her muttering to herself.

_“That’s fine… That’s fine… Oh, well that’s not very good, is it?”_

The Tardis wheezed, and the Doctor pressed something.

_“No, I don’t want to. I hate sitting still.”_

Yaz paused. Was the Doctor having an argument with herself, or the ship? Somehow, the latter seemed as much if not more likely, especially when the Doctor harrumphed and something cluttered to the floor.

Taking the opportunity of the brief pause in the argument, Yaz stepped into the console room. She wrapped her arms around herself - it was a little bit chilly in here - and looked around. The Doctor was nowhere to be seen. Odd. But she was definitely in here, so Yaz proceeded, walking and talking in the hopes of running into her eventually.

“Uh, Doctor, I was just wondering - do you have a sort of prayer room, or something, I could use?”

“Probably!” The Doctor replied enthusiastically, and suddenly Yaz realised where she was: the thing that had cluttered was the Doctor herself. She was splayed out on the console floor like a child in a sandpit, still holding her injured side, with a big flop of blonde hair having fallen in her face. Yaz frowned down at her.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” the Doctor promised. “Will be in a few seconds. Just couldn’t find a chair, you know. I hate sitting still. But all my organs are still messy. The stabilisers must have had to spend a bit longer on my hearts, didn’t make it all the way down before I woke up. No worries. I’ll sort myself out. Got an egg timer. Anyways, prayer room, if you just -“

Yaz blinked. “Sorry, did you say hearts? As in, plural?”

“Yeah!” the Doctor cried. “Wanna see?”

She pointed blindly upward at the screen she had been using to medically analyse herself, where an X-ray was showing the inner workings of her torso. Two hearts beat in gold and blue.

“Sorry,” she said, realising too late, “unless you’re squeamish like Graham-“

“No, it’s alright,” Yaz assured her, walking closer to the screen with fascination across her features. “I love all this gross stuff. Uh- not that I think you’re gross, I just-“

She cut herself off, a blush rising in her cheeks as she realised it probably hadn’t come across like that anyway. Just in case, she glanced back to make sure she hadn’t caused offence. The Doctor blew a puff of air in an attempt to shift the hair that had fallen across her face. A cloud of gold hair shimmered in the dim light and fell back where it had started, just even messier than before, and Yaz bit her lip to stop from laughing. Then, clearing her throat, she turned back to the screen. Two hearts. That really was a wonder. She didn’t know enough about medicine - let alone whatever language the text was written in - to get much more from it, but _wow._

Then the egg timer went off.

( _Oh, so she meant it literally)_

And the Doctor leapt to her feet with the exhausted, exaggerated relief of somebody who’d just made it up a long flight of stairs. Shaking her now frazzled hair back from her face as best she could and rolling her shoulders because none of her clothes sat right, she declared:

_“UGH,_ that was ages, but here we go. Prayer room.”

Taking the screen back from Yaz, the Doctor began tapping at some of the clockwork-like symbols, and a few of the console controls for good measure.

“Earth. Islam. Sunni, right? Does that matter for a prayer room? Probably. UK. Twentieth century. Ugh, no, twenty-first, sorry.” She dialled something forward. “There you go.”

Yaz struggled not to gape in surprise. Questions flooded her mind. How had the Doctor known all that. Guessed? Read her mind? Performed some kind of alien equivalent of Facebook-stalking? And did the time and place settings mean she could have a prayer room modelled after the seventh century, or the tenth? Or from another country? Another planet, even?

“That's incredible,” she whispered, because that seemed to sum it up.

“Should be right down there,” the Doctor suggested. “Second left, then a right, the door with the moon on it. Wash room’s next door. Mats and things should be in there already, but we can get your things from home if you’d prefer. Let me know if you need anything else.”

She beamed at Yaz, and Yaz beamed back, and skipped a step toward the hallway the Doctor had identified. Then she paused and turned back and asked:

“Which direction is south?”

“Any direction you want.”

“Right. Which way is Earth, then, I suppose?”

“Just over there.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble, honestly.”

Yaz nodded and happily took her leave. The Doctor returned to monitoring the controls, appearing deep in concentration for a moment until she took the chance to glance at Yaz’s back. Pink flannel pyjamas with little yellow stars on them. Her plait pulled undone hair spilling about the place. Still walking with such joy and such purpose, even though her tiny human body must be exhausted from all this by now. Amazing.

The Doctor let out a breath, and caught herself in the reflection of the console screen, brushing at her wild hair. She blushed and stopped immediately, clearing her throat and looking for something meaningful to pretend to do as soon as possible. The Tardis chuckled, and she batted the console with her hand.

“Shut up,” she hissed, and with a smug hum, it obeyed.


End file.
